


Scars on Earth

by LeslieFish



Category: Highlander - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-24
Updated: 2004-02-24
Packaged: 2018-12-18 06:35:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11868693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeslieFish/pseuds/LeslieFish
Summary: Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived atDaire's Fanfic Refuge. Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onDaire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile.





	Scars on Earth

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Daire's Fanfic Refuge](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Daire%27s_Fanfic_Refuge). Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Daire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/dairesfanficrefuge/profile).

Scars on Earth by Leslie Fish

_Scars on Earth_

By Leslie Fish 

* * *

**France, 1929**

'Doctor, there's an Adam Walters to see you, and he appears rather...tense.' 

Sean Burns raised an eyebrow, but didn't let the nurse see anything further. 'Ah, yes, I've been expecting him. By all means, send him to my office – and cancel the rest of my appointments for today.' 

'Won't you even do rounds?' she frowned, a very dutiful woman. 

'I'll make evening rounds, I expect. Now show him in.' Sean dismissed her with a negligent wave, but worried to himself. Methos had showed up three months sooner than expected; that might mean his confidence was increasing, or it might mean some crisis that couldn't wait for the full year to end. The appearance of tension argued for the latter case. 

Well, best have the drinks ready, then. Sean brought out the snifters and the brandy, tossed more wood into the fireplace and poked up the fire to a cheery blaze. The door opened just as he was setting the poker back in its rack. 

'Hello again, Sean.' Methos' voice was as expressionless as his face. He took care to close and bolt the door himself. 

'Welcome back,' Sean smiled. 'This time it's my turn to provide the drinks. Come sit down and share this excellent Napoleon brandy I've been keeping for you.' 

Methos shook himself briefly, then jerked off his long overcoat. A stiff fold revealed the shape of his hidden sword as he hung the coat on the rack. 'It's cold out,' he muttered. 'I'm truly grateful for the fire.' 

'Wood is much easier to come by, now that everyone's shifting to gas heat,' Sean smiled. 'I daresay, I'm keeping an old family of woodcutters in business.' 

He sat down on the couch and poured the snifters one-third full. After an awkward moment, Methos settled beside him and reached for the near glass. He moved as stiffly as a robot, holding himself under tight rein, and gulped the first mouthful of brandy, scarcely tasting it. 

'So, where have your travels taken you this year?' Sean asked, keeping the subject light. 'What fascinating places have you visited?' 

'Los Angeles, Montreal, Bucharest...' Methos shrugged, a little too jerkily. 'Not so fascinating, really. Same old unlovely realities everywhere: poverty, dirt, the usual corruptions...' He took another sip, a bit slower. 

_Not simple depression,_ Sean guessed. _Anger, and close to the surface._ 'Ah, then what have you seen this year that made you so cynical?' 

Methos froze for an instant, then hitched his shoulders higher. 'Cruelty and stupidity,' he snarled, staring into the fire. 'Starving children picking through garbage for crumbs of food, selling themselves to passers-by. Thoughtless destruction of an ancient forest to make room for a trash-dump. The powerful abusing the powerless, as usual. Casual murder...' He gulped another mouthful of the brandy. 

_Very close to the surface. He's going straight to the point._ 'Murder?' Sean nudged. 

'He beat his wife to death.' Methos didn't take his eyes off the fire. 'The court sentenced him to a whole year in prison – because it was an 'accident'. He was drunk, and she burned his dinner, and he 'didn't mean to hit her that hard'... Gods! No one questioned his right to beat her – nor her weakness, that she couldn't defend herself...' 

Now his breathing was fast and harsh, and his face was tight with fury. Sean worried about his grip on the thin glass. 'You knew the woman?' he guessed. 

'My housekeeper. And,' Methos bit off the words. 'There was. Nothing. I. Could. Do.' 

'That,' Sean agreed, 'Is hell.' 

Methos managed to set down his glass before running both hands into his hair and pulling it, hard. 'And it doesn't have to be this way! The world wasn't always this way! They made it—they chose this— Set! Melkarth! Djaus-Pitar! I hate them! I hate them— It isn't finished...' 

'Easy, my friend.' Sean wrapped an arm around Methos' bowed shoulders. 'No need to tell me that men are often cruel, and stupid. They know it themselves.' **_What isn't finished? And just whom does he hate?_ **'That's why they have legends of good and evil, and religions, and—' He stopped there, feeling Methos tense under his hands.****

'Religion doesn't make them virtuous anymore,' Methos whispered. 'Their very gods are tainted with it.' 

_**'Their'?**_ 'Mortals, you mean?' 

'Yes,' Methos hissed, then dropped his face into his hands and heaved a vast sigh. 'There are times when I hate mortals in general, Sean.' 

'Understandable.' Sean gently rubbed Methos' shoulders, reading the tensions. 'Hmm, but you do make a few exceptions, don't you?' 

Methos gave a harsh laugh. 'Of course. I don't wish to slaughter my cook, or the postman. I'm sure I could easily find more fitting candidates.' 

_**Killing rage, despairing rage,**_ Sean understood. _**It must have somewhere to go, some way to discharge its power, or it will eat him.**_ 'One should properly start with the most outstanding offenders, if only as an example to others.' 

'Yes...' Methos quivered, then reached for the brandy and took a long, leisurely sip. 'Of course, the worst offenders are usually the best guarded – by soldiers and police, law and custom and religion. The worst of them usually aren't outside the law, but on top of it – proof positive that shit floats.' His face tightened into the expression of a hawk, hunting. 

'Which explains cynics, anarchists and revolutionaries,' Sean agreed. 'I know of one Immortal who goes about fomenting revolutions as a way of life... Hmm, but I can't say I approve of his methods. I wouldn't recommend joining him.' 

'The occasional war or revolution can be good for one's soul,' Methos considered, a little calmer. 'The problem is that war, since the invention of artillery, has become dangerous even for Immortals.' 

_**Let him return to the problem by roundabout means. I think he knows about this...**_ 'It wasn't that safe before then. Do you know Nicholas Van Der Hoek? He lost an arm during the Crusades, and spent over a century in a monastery, growing it back.' 

Methos jerked and turned to stare at him. 'Regrow— You know about—?' 

'I've known for a long time.' Sean rubbed a little more firmly, reassuring. 'God knows, I've seen it happen.' 

'I do hope you've kept that secret.' Methos sounded calmer. 'Fear of maiming is one of the few brakes on our violent tendencies.' 

'No one hears it from me who doesn't need to know.' Sean moved his massaging hands slowly down Methos' arms. 'And any I tell, I swear to secrecy – and explain why.' 

'Darius—' Methos started, then stopped. 

'It was he who first told me.' 

'Ah. ...I suppose I should go talk to him, when I'm finished here...' 

That, Sean judged, was a good point for leading to an earlier question. 'Why did you say that religion is tainted?' 

Methos hissed and tensed again, reached for his brandy glass and drained it, then set it down with elaborate care. 'The last time we spoke,' he began slowly, 'I told you something of the age before the fall...' 

'...Of Atlantis, and Knossos? Yes.' Sean was grateful that he'd done his research these past nine months. 'They were matriarchal societies, before what the archeologists are now calling the Aryan Invasion.' 

Methos thoughtlessly reached for the brandy bottle and poured his glass halfway full. 'Those so-called Aryan people were ambiarchal, originally – much like the Sarmatians, and the Scythians...' He chewed his lip for a moment, then took a deliberately small sip of the brandy. 'I don't know, but I can suspect, what made them turn completely patriarchal, brutish, childish...' 

'The curse of king Soroas,' Sean remembered. 'You know it couldn't have been just him, not alone.' **_It wasn't your fault, my friend!_**

'Even so...' Methos set his glass down and stared into the fireplace, and the flames. 'The Earth shifted – floods, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions – and the destruction was...terrible. People didn't understand... Hell, the geologists are still arguing over the theory of Plate Tectonics; how could we have known, four thousand years ago? ...They thought the goddess had abandoned them.' 

'Understandable,' Sean murmured. 'They must have been lost, terrified...' 

'But they didn't have to believe—' Methos ground his teeth. 'The invasion came—gods, I'll bet they'd been waiting for just such a chance! The new men, the vicious new faith... They claimed that their sky, fire, thunder gods had done it. Defeated the goddess, even killed her...Marduk, Babylonian legend...' 

'Opportunists,' Sean considered. 

'At first, the only advantage they had was bigger horses, better chariots – and mobility, not being tied to crops in the field – but that was enough, all over the Middle East, and western Asia, and much of Europe. They conquered, attacked the goddess' temples, the priestesses...' Methos caught his breath for a moment, then went on. 

'A few places, the warrior-women fought them to a standstill. Made them back off, leave the temples alone. Even so, the captains made a habit of forcing the priestess-queens to marry them, got rule over the land, forced changes in the customs so their sons could inherit. To do that, they set up rival temples to their man-gods. Then they declared their gods greater than the goddesses. Cruel gods, defying the old ethics...lording it over everything weaker than themselves, bullying and looting without thought...excuses for their cruelties, stupidities...' His hands clenched suddenly into fists, and that hunting-hawk look came back onto his face. 

Sean thought fast. 'Not all at once, not everywhere. I recall fairy-tales from as late as the middle ages, about poor woodcutter's sons winning the hands of princesses – and therefore half the kingdom; that sounds like matriarchal succession.' 

'Yes, sometimes, some places.' Methos drew a deep breath and visibly calmed himself. 'At first the queens resisted...sometimes even seeing to it that they bore no living sons, just to be certain their daughters ruled.' 

Sean took care not to react. 

'...And the conquered people resented, and resisted, for awhile...too short awhile.' Methos shuddered. 'Too soon, they fell for it – the new beliefs, the might-makes-right lie – they forgot there had ever been another way, another world...' 

'Folk-memories of the Golden Age,' Sean reminded him. 

'Just legends, no effect on daily life, how they acted, what they really believed... Gods damn them for that! Forgetting—' Methos pressed his hands into his eyes. 'Darius believes in a loving god, but even he has to remember that gods didn't begin that way. Look at their mythologies, their holy books: jealous, cruel, eager to punish, to make war...personalities of barbarian despots...a thousand years before any of them began acting remotely civilized.' 

**_His language is the giveaway: it changes as he approaches traumatic memories._** 'They eventually got the idea,' Sean reminded him. 'Mortals, and their gods, have been making philosophical and ethical progress, these last couple millennia.' 

'So very long, so little progress.' Methos pulled down his hands, revealing a bleak and bitter look. 'They've forgotten it all, everything that went before. They're starting from roots of pure brutishness...and they turn back to it so easily. I hate them, Sean. Sometimes I truly hate them.' 

Sean couldn't think of any other approach but the direct one. 'What do you do with your hatred, old friend?' 

For answer, Methos shuddered so heavily that his teeth rattled. 

'You act on it?' Sean guessed, keeping his hands moving, ready to grip Methos' arms if necessary. 

Methos closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. 'You won't like it,' he whispered. 

'I don't ask to like, but only to understand.' 

Methos shuddered again. 'I kill them, Sean,' he said quietly. 'I used to go to war. Now I go hunting.' 

Sean kept rubbing, gently, carefully. 'At random?' he asked, 'Or discriminate?' 

'Not at random...' Methos paused. 'Not anymore. I...simply walk through the bad part of a city, looking like bait – and kill any mortals who come to take it.' 

'You've done this recently?' Sean guessed. **_Get the details._**

'This last week. In Bucharest. Just after that trial...' Abruptly, Methos grabbed for the brandy and gulped a mouthful. 

'The news hasn't reached this far,' Sean tried. 'It wasn't enough of a slaughter to make international headlines.' 

'No,' Methos admitted, setting down the glass. 'Half a dozen young street-thugs, found with knives near their hands. The police think it was a gang-war. No doubt some mortal crime-boss will be blamed, eventually.' 

'Half a dozen,' Sean repeated. **_But you're still so tense and angry. Is it self-disgust, or... Dear God, 'It's not finished'you said!_** 'Was that enough to satisfy your fury?' 

'No!' Methos clenched his hands on his knees, knuckles whitening. 'Not enough! I need to—I can't stop yet—I don't know how far... I can channel my hate, but I can't get rid of it. Sean, what am I going to do?!' 

Sean wrapped both arms around Methos' shoulders and squeezed hard, pulling him close. 'There are ways,' he murmured. 'There are ways.' 

'Lock me up?' Methos panted. 'For how long?' 

'How long will it take for the fit to pass?' 

'It's not a question of time. It's...' 

'...number of lives?' 

'Yes.' Methos sagged in Sean's grip. 'And I never know my...quota, until it's over.' 

Sean loosened his grip a fraction of an inch and ventured to rock Methos in his arms, very slightly. 'What's the worst it's ever been?' 

'Worst...' Methos shivered, but leaned into the subtle motion. 'For nearly a thousand years, we slaughtered any mortals who came near us...' 

**_'Us'?!_** Sean filed that away for future reference. 

'...But that was very long ago. I tired of it. Burned it out...for a while, anyway. I began wanting longer and longer stretches of peace.' 

'Ah, good, that's good.' Sean rocked him a little more noticeably, carefully timing the motion to Methos' heartbeat. 

'Whenever the rage came back, I could always find a war.' Methos raised a hand to rub his eyes. 'I didn't keep count, then. Nowadays... It varies. Last time this happened, it took eight.' 

'And what's the smallest number it's ever taken?' 

'A few times, one was enough...if he was a grand enough bastard, if I could kill him at my leisure.' 

Sean suppressed a shudder. ''Leisure'? To kill slowly?' 

'No.' Methos sat up a little straighter. 'Not to torture. Just time to let them know why they're dying, time to see the terror in their eyes before I strike. ...Time enough for me to feel it, thoroughly, afterward.' 

'I understand.' **_The hell of it is, I do._** 'Avenger, punisher.' 

'Afterward...' Methos' teeth were chattering again. 'They're dead, and I'm alive, and it feels...so...damned...good.' 

'Relief?' Sean guessed. 'Ecstatic relief?' He'd seen enough cases of that from the war. 

'Yes. Oh, yes.' Methos sagged against him, looking drained. 

'Yes...' Sean rocked him steadily, letting the long seconds tick past. **_Questions can wait until he calms, accepts my acceptance._**

Eventually Methos drew a deep breath. 'I got out of Bucharest as fast as I could,' he went on. 'Train, private cabin in the sleeping-car. Had my meals delivered by the steward. Didn't see anyone else. Slept a lot. Came here. Managed to keep control this long, but it's still there, and it's hungry, and I can't keep holding it off... Sean, I'm going to have to hunt again, very soon.' 

'Tonight?' Sean asked quietly. **_Oh God, not here!_**

'Tomorrow night, at the latest.' Methos was panting again. 'Nearest city big enough to have a bad zone. ...Gods, I feel like a vampire!' 

'Will it help to stay asleep for a few days?' Sean considered. 

'No. I'll waken just as...hungry.' 

'Angry, you mean.' 

'Both, and worse. Bloodthirsty.' 

Sean only sighed. He could see no other solution; trying to hold the man by force was impossible. **_If I even try, I'll lose his trust forever._** 'Paris, or Le Havre?' he asked. 

'Paris. I've got to see Darius anyway.' 

'For confession?' 

'That, and help.' Methos sagged into Sean's unfailing grip. 'Long before you were born, he helped me gain this much control.' 

'How?' **_Details. Get the details._**

'By reminding me, showing me, that...there were a lot of mortals I could...love.' 

'Ah.' Sean filed away that thought. 'And any other means?' 

'Fasting and penance sometimes work,' Methos admitted. 'Heavy penance. But it only holds for a time. Eventually...' 

'A time? How long can you go without...?' 

'The longest I've lasted was about ten years. Of course, that was in a quiet and empty place: very few mortals around, very few opportunities to be...that offended.' 

'Would it do any good to become a hermit in the forest?' Sean considered, 'Or to join a monastery?' **_Can I get him away from mortals?_**

'I've tried.' Methos stared bleakly into the flames. 'Even in monasteries, the petty cruelties and stupidities spring up. And I don't do well as a primitive.' 

'And...' Sean made a good guess. 'You have no one to love right now?' 

Methos only bowed his head. 

Sean patted his shoulder, calculating the next step. 'Old friend, this is what we call a compulsion. I can cure it, given time, but that won't help your immediate problem.' _**I can't think of any way to prevent this!**_

'I know!' Methos groaned. 'I have to leave tonight...' 

'How soon can you return?' 

Methos shrugged. 'I don't know. It depends on how long it takes to...satisfy the fury. Perhaps a week. Possibly two.' 

'Come back as soon as you can, Methos. Uprooting a compulsion takes time, and we can't let this wait.' **_Please!_**

'It's waited over three thousand years.' Methos laughed bitterly. 

'But you don't like it, do you?' Sean prodded carefully. 'You didn't like being constricted by fear, and you don't like being compelled by hatred.' 

'No!' Methos flinched, and clutched at his friend's arms for support. 'No, I...I suppose that's why I came here today, even though I knew you couldn't...stop me.' 

'And you want to be stopped?' 

'I want to stop myself.' 

'I'll help you. I swear it.' **_Please, Methos, let me do it now – right now._**

'I know.' Methos sagged against the back of the couch, and Sean eased him onto it. 'I think I have a couple hours yet. Do what you can.' 

**_Thank you,_** Sean almost said aloud, knowing what it cost his old and secretive friend to lay himself open like this. Swiftly now, while the window of opportunity was open... 'The root of this lies in the far past, at what you called the fall of the world,' he began. 'For you, that downfall began with the eruption of Atlantis and the tidal wave—' 

Methos flinched again, but said nothing. 

'—that destroyed your people, the Djana-os-gen. You said that you walked away from the wreckage and went on to new lands, away from the treacherous sea. When the shock wore away, your grief must have been terrible.' Sean paused, waiting. 

'...No,' Methos whispered. 'I didn't feel it. Didn't think about it. Didn't look back.' 

''Ne retre vide',' Sean quoted. 

Methos shivered, but said nothing. 

'It didn't touch you at all?' **_How hard did you suppress it?_**

'A few nightmares,' Methos admitted, 'Quickly forgotten.' 

**_Terror and loss too great to face._** 'When did you meet other people again?' 

'Goatherds in the hills,' Methos muttered, staring into the fire. 'Suspicious. Thought I might steal their goats. I followed tracks to the nearest town. Traded firewood for food. Asked about work. Traveling merchant, needed help with his pack-donkeys...' 

His words dwindled, and Sean guessed there was some hidden pain there. 'Did you feel anything for him at all?' 

Methos frowned. 'Petty, nasty little man. Tried to cheat me. ...I killed him with a rock.' 

'Just because he cheated you?' _**There had to be more to it!**_

'No.' Methos stared at the flames as if hypnotized. 'He talked, acted...like one of King Soroas' 'true men'. The same thoughtless arrogance, cruelty...boasting of how he knew the 'women's secret'...' 

'Knowledge of paternity? It was spreading?' 

'Not just that. The plague of arrogance.' Methos leaned forward to reach for the brandy, and took a mouthful. 'I knew that Soroas' teachings had survived him. The plague was spreading. I had to stop it. Stopped him.' 

**_The old horror, on top of the unacknowledged grief..._** 'You killed him. And then?' 

'Stripped the body and hid it. Took his clothes, weapons, money-rings. Took his pack-train and identity. Took a different route, where no one would recognize his gear.' Methos moved to set the glass down, and Sean took it for him. 'Eastward, then south, inland from the coast. Farming towns, then a trade-city. New languages. I knew I'd have to learn them. Rented a house in town, worked as a scribe for the local temple...' 

**_Another pause: significant._** 'A goddess temple?' 

'Ishtar, with a consort.' Methos leaned back a little. 'A good place. I thought of staying...' 

'Why didn't you?' 

'A priestess...liked me. She would have learned I was immortal, a divine hero. I didn't want to be a god again...' 

Methos abruptly flinched, then grabbed for the brandy. Sean watched while he took a long mouthful, then asked gently, 'Why not?' 

'Because I failed! I couldn't save them, save anyone—couldn't give them what they needed, or wanted...' He clutched the glass and stared into the flames. 'I couldn't go through that again. I never really wanted the duties of godhood...the burden, heavier every year... I wanted to be just a man, to live my life and enjoy it, like anyone else.' 

'Understandable.' **_Especially after losing all you'd loved to forces of nature... Which your people believed were the High Gods!_**

'So I had to move on. Further south, new city...didn't speak the language...' 

He flinched again, this time so hard he dropped his glass, blindly thrust out both arms as if warding off an unseen evil and shouted something in a language Sean didn't know. His expression, though, was perfectly recognizable: absolute horror. 

**_Pull him back, fast._** 'Adam,' Sean called gently, 'Adam...' **_It's there. The core of the trauma is somewhere in there._**

Methos didn't hear him, but kept gasping words in that unknown tongue. 

'Methos,' Sean tried. 'Methos, Methos...' 

That got through. Methos dropped his arms and slumped on the cushions. His voice dropped to a whisper, and now the words were identifiable as ancient Greek. 'Blood...' he was saying, and 'Cruel...endless...' 

'Methos, Methos, come home,' Sean ventured, likewise in Greek. 'Come back to me. Methos...' _**It grabs him, takes control away from him.**_

The whispering stopped and Methos let himself lean on Sean's shoulder. Unnoticed tears tracked slowly down his cheeks. Sean waited until his breathing slowed and the tears stopped, until the soft ticking of the clock and the rustling of the fire grew noticeable in the silence. 

'Methos, it's past,' Sean whispered. 'It's behind you. It can't touch you now. You can turn and look back, but it's far behind you – not here.' **_Safety of distance..._**

Methos nodded once, jerkily, looking exhausted. 

'What did you see?' Sean dared. 'What happened back then?' 

'Cruelty,' Methos mumbled, now in modern French. 'So much...so long...I couldn't bear it.' 

**_Not just what you saw,_** Sean guessed. **_Something you suffered._** 'What happened?' he tried again. 

Methos shook his head vaguely. 'It all runs together,' he murmured. 'Just a...long chaotic time...jumbled memories...cruelty, overwhelming, no escape from it...' 

'Can you remember anything specific? Anything at all?' 

'...A thief stabbed me. Saw him take my purse...before I died.' Methos shivered again. 'So petty, stupid...' 

**_The least of it, perhaps the beginning..._** 'Anything else?' 

'Only fragments. Slaughtered cattle left to rot...burnt ruins...bodies...stink... blood on stone...' He shook his head again, quickly. 'Only a senseless mosaic...' 

'A chaos of misery,' Sean concluded. **_But something happened there..._**

'And it went on and on...years, decades...' Methos frowned slightly, as if trying to calculate missing time. 

**_Long fugue-state?_** 'What brought you out of it?' 

Methos' frown deepened. 'Another Immortal. Friend. Took me in.' 

**_Ecstatic relief?_** Sean wondered. 'How did you live then?' 

All in an instant, Methos' expression went hawk-like again. 'Punishers,' he whispered through his teeth. 'Avengers. We raided, slaughtered...' 

**_'We'?_** 'You and your friend?' 

'Four of us,' Methos corrected. 'Called ourselves brothers. We shared everything...everything except...' He looked back at the fire. 'We never spoke of the past...what went before...what made us hate them. We hated, we loved seeing them die, and that was enough.' 

**_A robber-gang of Immortals..._** Sean repressed a shiver. 'How long did this go on?' 

'A thousand years.' Methos stared into the fire as if hypnotized by the flames. 

Sean realized his mouth was hanging open, and hastily shut it. 

'We paid them back in full measure,' Methos ground on. 'They wanted to live like that, slaughtering and torturing and enslaving each other... We proved we could do it better. They wanted their sins, and we gave them a bellyful. We became legends, nightmares, devils...and we loved it.' 

Sean abruptly remembered something Methos had said during his last visit, something that connected perfectly. **_Last time, he said that eventually he went over to the side of evil, embraced it..._** ''Come, devil,'' he quoted, ''For unto thee is this world given.'' 

Methos howled, his back arching in anguish, and clawed blindly at the air. 

Sean held onto him, not daring to say anything further yet – but simply holding on soon became difficult; Methos twisted and lunged, and Sean was obliged to pull him over sideways lest his struggles land both of them on the floor. Once down on his side Methos struggled a bit longer, wailing in wordless pain, and finally subsided into bitter weeping. Sean pulled Methos into his lap, eased his grip and sat up, and began combing his fingers gently through his friend's hair, waiting. At length the spasms eased to the point where Sean guessed Methos could speak again. 

'So you went from being a god to being a devil,' he prodded. 

Methos only groaned. 

'You didn't enjoy being a god, but you loved being a devil?' _**Is that the core of the compulsion, or is there more.**_

'Yes...' Methos sobbed, 'Yes...for a very long time.' 

'Until you burned it out, tired of it?' — **_Bronze Age civilizations_** — 'Or because the world changed again?' 

'Uh...' Methos twitched in surprise. '...Both. A little of both. Cities grew. Trade...literacy...I saw artisans, philosophers...civilization coming back. Nothing like the old world, but better than the savagery...' 

'So there was hope again?' 

'...a little. I'd done my job...' 

**I >'Job?!'** 'As avenger? Punisher?' 

'Enough!' Methos wailed – in Attic Greek. 'High Gods, haven't I done enough for you? Divine hero, showing them good – demon, showing them evil... Enough! Stop using me. Leave me alone...' 

'...to be just a man,' Sean murmured, likewise in Greek, remembering. 'Just to live life and enjoy it, like anyone else.' 

'Please...' Methos whispered. His body sagged, slowly went limp, and his breathing deepened. 

**_Sleep..._** Sean remembered another quote. _**'Sleep, that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care.'** _He kept petting Methos' hair, slowly extended the strokes down his neck, and glanced thoughtfully at the desk in the corner, thinking of the drawer that contained the array of little white pills. _ **If only I can persuade him to stay...**_ __

The clock softly ticked away the minutes, and the fire crackled warmly. Sean leaned his head on the back of the couch, absorbing the sense of peace, wishing he could pass it on to Methos through his touch. Thoughts connected, elaborated, rearranged themselves, and birthed more questions. 

_**What became of the Immortals during the time of chaos, the Fall of the World? ...'couldn't give them what they wanted, or needed...' Was that when our kind started hiding from mortals? What did we all lose when the old world ended, what sorrow that he can't bear?**_

But Methos was stirring again. 'What time is it?' he mumbled, trying to look at the clock. 'How long did I sleep?' 

'No more than twenty minutes. If you need more—' 

'No.' Methos pulled himself upright, blinked for a moment, and began reassembling himself into his usual controlled pattern. 'I really should go soon.' 

'Please tell me one more thing,' Sean tried. 'What happened to the Immortals during the Fall of the World?' 

Methos winced, and squeezed his eyes shut. 'Ingrates!' he whispered through his teeth. 'Greedy bastards! They turned on us.' 

**_Wrong thing to bring up!_** Sean mentally kicked himself. _**I should have waited...**_

'They wanted more than we could give. When we couldn't give, they tried to take—' Methos broke off, gasping, and stared wide-eyed at the fire. 

'Take what?' Sean dared. 'What, Methos?' 

'Magic! Holy blood—' Methos laughed wildly, his eyes raging. 'Where do you think that comes from? Mortal vampires! The Mass—Oh, Darius, you sweet fool— And you, Sean! Remember your cute little Irish folk-tales? Catch a faery, and he'll give you three wishes— Darker than you think! ...Goddammit, where's that brandy?' 

'Here.' Sean handed him the glass, and watched while Methos drained it. 'So mortals turned on their old demigods, tried to force magic out of them...' **_And you! ...No, don't push for that yet._** '...So you went into hiding?' 

'Yes!' Methos lunged to his feet and hurled his glass into the fire. It shattered, and the shards flared brief blue flames. Methos stared at the fire as his breathing slowly settled. 'It wasn't because of each other,' he said, calmer. 'That came later. No, we hid from mortals – all of us who didn't have enough power to fight them, beat them into submission, make them fear us. Not all of your cute little Irish faeries were easy victims.' 

'Water-nixies, that drown unwary travelers,' Sean remembered. 'The Morrighu...' 

'Morgan le Fay was the toned-down version.' Methos straightened, took a deep breath and turned toward the coat-rack. 'I have to go now, Sean,' he said, very calmly, but his voice brooked no argument. 

'Come back when you're done,' Sean pleaded. 'You know we have to deal with this.' 

'Yes,' Methos promised. He went to the rack, pulled his coat from it and shoved his arms into the sleeves. 'Yes, I'll be back. Soon.' 

'Be careful, old friend. Please take care...great care...' **_Choose your victims wisely!_**

'As always.' Methos waved him a brief salute, unlocked the door and swept out. His footfalls hardly made a sound: in hunting-mode already. 

Sean recapped the brandy, drained his own glass, then got up and went to the telephone. It took a few minutes to dial Paris and call the rectory of Darius' church, still longer to reach Darius himself. 

'Sean, good to hear from you!' Oh, but that voice was welcome! 

'I can't tell you how glad I am. Darius...our old friend 'Adam' will probably be there on the next train.' _**One never knows who's listening on these things.**_ 'He badly needs to see you, concerning his...compulsion.' 

'Ah.' There was a world of meaning in that sigh. 'He's seen too much cruelty again, has he?' 

'Yes.' **_He understands._** 'Please, make certain he comes back to me once...it's over.' 

'I'll do my best,' Darius promised. 'Now, unfortunately, I must go deal with another crisis.' 

'I'm sorry to lay this on you at such a time.' 

'It couldn't be helped, knowing our friend. _Au revoir,_ Sean, and God bless you.' 

'God—' Sean's voice caught in his throat as he remembered Methos' words. Darius didn't hear him, and the connection closed. 'Mother of God,' he amended, hanging up the phone, 'Keep him safe. Don't let this run too long, or too far.' 

And now it was back to the usual routine. There was still time for some of his afternoon appointments, and of course for evening rounds. Somewhere in there he would have to make arrangements to get newspapers from Paris, the _Paris Soir_ most probably, and study the back pages. 

If he saw a story of mysterious killings, or a beheading, he'd know. 

\--END-- 

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© 2003-2004   
Please send comments to the author! 

02/24/2004 

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